I think I know how stupid this is going to sound; so much so that every time I sit down to blog I end up staring at the empty virtual page, fingers poised, ready to thread what’s overflowing from my heart into something as tenuous as words. I hover for a second, pondering, and then I shake my head dismissively and walk away, smiling at this new-found incapacity to put words around my life.
As I was driving home today a pheasant (of all things!) appeared out of nowhere and waddled wackily infront of an oncoming car, which in turn swerved impulsively, seeming for several life-long seconds like it was headed straight for me. Time slowed in that impossibly strange way it does just when something awful seems imminent - probably the one time you’d prefer a fast-forward function - and then quick as a flash the driver presumably realised that pheasant road-kill was the lesser of the two presenting evils, and we were spared.
Driving away I had this Sliding Doors moment; glancing in the rear-view mirror as we sped away from such a near miss I tried not to think about how different that moment might have played out; how much could have ended so suddenly on that very spot on the road, all because of something so meaningless. And I tried not to think about how much that reflected another part of life, so far behind us now, so very, very far behind us, so as to seem as if it never even happened.
“And I can’t do this by myself
All of these problems; they’re all in your head...
Behind your lies
I can see the secrets you don’t show.”
Lyrics to a song I’d never heard before flew out of the radio as real as the birds flocking overhead as we drove past the trees, disturbing their singing reverie. Like knives thrown at the head of the smiling woman who stands as a willing target, they pierced my soul and for a minute, I couldn’t breathe. I know it’s a cliché but music used to soothe when nothing else could, and every now and then it still captures the essence of that time, distilled into lyrics that I didn’t write but that tell my story nonetheless.
Except this time it was different. This time the feeling that hit was soaring strength. You are so strong, said a voice somewhere deep within, in tones that echoed around my vert bones, and I could do nothing but glance at my unlikely reflection and nod a solemn silent agreement.
“My sins are gone, my debt is paid...
Mercy disarms the most broken of hearts,
Such complete and profound faithfulness.”
Just another flow of words strung together by someone else but they strike a chord or pierce my heart or do something that pins me to the moment and leaves me stuck for words. And I know I’m using alot of words to explain how lost for words I am; the irony isn’t lost on me.
But lately I have this feeling and it’s so overwhelming that when it hits I cannot speak. So until this point I’ve never tried to express it. I’ve just let the moment be, held it, speechless in wonder, and tried in some small way to bear witness to it, to acknowledge that it’s True.
A day that begins and ends with the love of little boys, so simple, so taken for granted, but seeming so suddenly profound. The warmth that’s here, the unspeakable joy that bubbles up out of nowhere, fruit that grows abundantly after a season of digging in the dark, and it makes me so happy that I can only cry. It makes no sense to me, but here I am, wordless, full of happy tears.
You see? This just sounds so stupid and the effort to put words around a happy heart just falls into cliché. Sorrow lends itself so much better to being written! Trying to articulate this is like hanging your coat where you always have, except the once-reliable peg is broken, so the coat slithers to the floor, surprising you. My peg used to be my words, but all I see is a coat pooled in an incongruous bundle on the floor, and instead of trying to pick it up I leave it be, quietly content to resist the urge for order.
I don’t recognise myself anymore. My reactions aren’t what they used to be; time and time again I surprise myself and I’ve stopped thinking it’s a phase. I have been changed and I like who I’ve become. I know how strong I am, and it’s an awesome, almost over-powering thing to know. I don’t expect to have to test it again, at least not for a while, please, but knowing it has done something to the core of me. I’m not who I was before. And yet I am so very weak, and therein lies the secret of this strength. And if I could speak more freely than a public space like this allows, I’d explain that this strength, this happiness that can only speak in tears, is not conditional. It does not rest in choices made and then unmade or in scenarios that looked unlikely for a time. I know who I am now, and that is all that matters. Nothing else can touch that, so much could come or go, a ridiculously-befuddled bird could wander out into the oncoming traffic, the things and people that punctuate this life with love and joy could be swept away and I know, I KNOW that I could stand. More than that I know the source of strength is a place of plenty. No credit-crunch can touch this place, it’s like heaven’s store-room and it’s full to overflowing, and like the chocolate I invented as a child, every time you take a piece more grows in its place.
That said, there are distinctives that make this such a happy place. Such solid friendships and creative connections that make me buzz; that speak to my soul in that quiet life-affirming way that makes you feel like you should remove your shoes, or find some way to acknowledge a sort of sacred ground. Two years into life in the promised land; after a period of time where it seemed like we’d been abandoned to the wilderness, and there is nowhere else on earth I want to be. I feel like I’m in the centre of my blueprint, and I can’t quite conceive that I can get away with this, with feeling like life is so bounteous and so plentiful, and there it is again, the embarrassment of other people reading this and suspecting they might not understand me, might think my expression of this space somehow pathetic, valueless.
Never mind. I think one of the ways you know you’re healing (healed?) is when you stop measuring the temperature of your life, stop checking the vital signs, stop checking how you are. I am fine. Perhaps that’s all I should have said. If the above makes no sense to you, know this; I am fine, and that’s all I really have to say.
I nestled myself into the nook of a rock on the beach for an hour in the evening sunlight yesterday and read an essay by Anna Quindlen about how doing nothing is really something.
“Downtime is where we become ourselves, looking into the middle distance, kicking at the curb, lying on the grass or sitting on the stoop and staring at the tedious blue of the summer sky. I don’t believe you can write poetry, or compose music, or become an actor without downtime, and plenty of it, a hiatus that passes for boredom but is really the quiet moving of the wheels inside that fuel creativity.”
By the time I looked up from that page I was so lost in thought that it took me by complete surprise to see the beach before me, bathed in liquid gold, waves exploding on the shore like nature’s own applause. After that I walked along the shore and out onto Pan’s Rock, where I stood and watched the pounding waves beneath me, daring them to reach me on the bridge.
For the second time this week I woke up alone this morning. Dada had snuck downstairs in search of downtime of his own. The Little Dude woke up, climbed out of his cot as usual and headed straight downstairs, closely followed by Big Brother. For the past 2 nights they’ve slept together in Big Brother’s bed, snuggled up like little lion cubs. I can’t believe they go to sleep like that, but it’s a measure of their closeness, not to mention how tired they’ve been at bedtime.
Snapshots of today:
2 delicious hours of downtime in my favourite coffee shop, fuelling creativity with a huge vanilla latte and a slice of something gooey and big enough for 2.
Wearing perfect skinny jeans, bought for £1.50 at a charity clothes swap at our church.
Pairing them with my favourite pair of heels (worn too infrequently) and walking right on by the clothes shops, reminding myself that new threads won’t make me happy, and that there’s something to be said for eking out a sense of style without a budget.
Finding the boys, all three, in the toy shop, and being descended upon by little lads, desperate to share their wares with me, bought with hard-earned pocket money, saved so passionately in their beloved money boxes.
Debating career options with Dada, wondering why it is that God sometimes doesn’t seem to have alot to say.
Wondering what to do, and appreciating the fact of having so many choices.
Spotting more of those suddenly visible threads, connecting now with then and even further back in time.
Musing over what’s been designed, and how the pieces fit together.
Wandering around the garden, wondering what are weeds and what are not.
Finding out that The Little Dude has got a place at nursery school for September, which means Big Brother will have a bit of company when he moves to his new Big School and starts P1.
Letting it sink in that life will change beyond all recognition, with my weekdays suddenly vastly empty until 2pm every day.
Writing school uniform shopping lists.
Explaining the Nursery news to the Little Dude, who wanted to call his Nannies right away.
Listening to him leave messages about how he’s a Big Boy now, and knowing that for the rest of my life I’ll remember his expression upon hearing a congratulatory message from his Nanny, such quiet pride in himself, such happy earnestness for one who is usually such a clown.
Realising it’s not far off a year since my first fledgling effort to write in a more public sphere, and feeling
unexpectedly encouraged a what a difference a year has made.
Checking the goals I scribbled down for 2009, and realising they’ve already been fulfilled. Wondering if I should be aiming higher, or just celebrating early accomplishments.
Hearing myself say ‘I love it here, I like my life, I have good friends and I don’t want anything to change’ and realising I should stop to recognise the goodness of this point without worrying about what might be about to be displaced.
Sending Dada to the Friary to go rock-climbing, still not convinced that isn’t sacrilege but liking the balance in our day, sufficient downtime and a sense of looking out for one another's needs, so much gentler than having to defend them for ourselves.
Boys who play for hours with brilliant new toys, and vowing to only ever invest in Lego products from now on.
I think a new book is chasing me. I’m trying to resist it but it comes, unbidden, into the room, waiting in the corner, patient but persistent. It won’t leave me be. Today I sketched out the ideas so far, just to try to shut it up, and it tumbled forth, start to finish, an outline ready to be written. A title too: A Mile Away From Home. I should have been relieved, thrilled even, to have a piece fall so easily into place, to feel so poised to get it written. Instead I sighed heavily and felt cornered. It’s got me again already, the story that must be told, prepared to tell itself if need be. There’s no escaping it. And now I’ve let it start itself, I suspect the only way forward is to keep going until The End’s in sight.
I've been meaning to start blogging again but life keeps getting in the way!
Sometimes I feel like I’m watching my life from the perimeters. I notice the details; such sweet-natured boy companions, skittering along beside me, my thrown-together look, a hapless mix of make-do-and-mend but with enough in the way of wacky accessories to look vaguely styled. So many other details conspiring to present a person and a life that is wholly mine. But sometimes I feel like a character in a story being written by someone other than me. I like what I’ve seen so far, but there’s no telling how it ends.
There’s SO much to say and so little time to say it. I feel like we’ve transitioned to a higher gear, where life thrums along at a faster pace and if I stare out of the window trying to capture the view I only end up dizzy. There’s little time for the reflective moments that fuel blogging.
And when I sit here, heart full and fingers poised to spill the secrets of my day into the blogosphere, I find I’ve no inclination to share it.
I can’t even summon up the interest to analyse why that is. “It’s my flow, and you don’t argue with the flow,” someone said to me this week, in reference to a thing they’d written, a detail of which I’d queried. I felt like I smiled all over in recognition of the truth of that. I’m in a flow these days, and you don’t question the flow.
That leaves me feeling as though I’ve nothing to say but this space waits for me, ready to welcome me back to my little nook of the internet as and when I find my voice.
In the meantime I’ve got only snapshots. Broad beans growing like weeds. A head full of plans for the garden. A bucket awaiting beetroot seeds. Pacing around the garden in sky-blue crocs, watering the flowerbeds with an old empty wine bottle. Running, and marvelling at the way it chisels away at babyfat. Abandoning the healthy eating and enjoying three peanut butter sandwiches and two bags of hula hoops. A heart full of hope for the promise of good things, tantalisingly within reach. A fervent prayer for guidance, and a small measure of angst as to where this all is leading. Dropping my phone in a public toilet. Again. Giving up tea and coffee. Finding I’m drinking more coke. A depth and tenderness to my interactions with the boys. Quiet pride in who they are, joy that comes from knowing them.
I finished my book and it left me feeling free. Exorcised is too strong a word but I’m loving the joy of dropping responsibility. It’s out there now, on other people’s task lists, and until such time as it comes back to me I’m enjoying the distance between us. I have a new idea but I’m letting it sit a while.
I feel like I’m always in a flurry of activity. Ideas, possibilities, intentions, all tumbling around and making me feel sometimes-impossibly busy, and yet there’s almost nothing to show for it, at least not in terms of income right this moment. So often rushing, too. But good at making time to walk slowly through the woods or on the beach, talking about how God can be everywhere at once and listening out to woodpeckers. I feel like I’m putting things in place, laying pieces of my heart in carefully crafted ways, like sticks of kindling in the fire grate. Building up to the moment when there’s enough to light a fire, looking forward to holding my hands against the warmth caused by the blaze we’re building.
I cried unexpectedly this week – happy, powerful tears springing forth against my will as I told a story that is my only real secret. “Someone help us here, someone must have experience with this,” said a friend, looking around a circle of relative strangers and yet deep friends, and I sat on m hands and took deep breaths and wondered where to start. In the end I left the details out and spoke without a sense of what I’d say. But I think I saw bones that had been left for dead stand up and turn themselves, for a second only, to thoughts of dancing. We talked about outcomes and conditions and I said something unintentionally persuasive about how we’ve got everything wrong and have been sold a lie about how happy we’re supposed to be. My concept of good news has been radically shaped by an unexpected encounter with the bad news. I’m not afraid of bad news anymore because I know it leads the way to a deep engaging with the good. You can’t know good without first knowing bad. Afterwards I felt unburdened, and I pretended not to notice while a friend watched me closely with an expression that I couldn’t read but it made me feel somehow validated.
Writing something work-related I paused mid-tapping of the keyboard and stared out the window as the pieces fell into place. I noticed themes, scribbled through the pages of my life. Threads picked up without me even noticing, woven through to now in ways that from one side look beautifully crafted. But I’ve been looking at the back, seeing only ugly knots and straggly ends. It made me sea-sick, to look from the other side, but ever since that glimpse I’ve been pacing from one side to the other, comparing the mess with the masterpiece.
